Things I’ve Told Myself

Photo Nick Fewings

Sometimes I think the worst things I’ve ever been told—I told myself. Probably while preparing breakfast or trying to go back to sleep. That’s how those voices show up. Not like thunder. More like static. More like: Of course you didn’t finish it. Why would you expect anybody to care? Your work just doesn’t amount to anything. It’s all a waste.

I used to believe all kinds of things. That I wasn’t talented enough. That creativity was for the chosen ones, the ones who wore black and went to Paris in their twenties. (Actually I did, but still…) I believed I was to bland, too timid . That I had to be like everybody else. That women like me didn’t get to be appreciated.

I believed you had to be a genius or a man or starving to be an artist. Ideally all three.

You probably have your own list.
I’m too old. I’m too tired. My work is boring. Everyone else is already doing it, and better.
There’s no money in art.
There’s no point.
Nobody cares.
I don’t deserve it.

Like wallpaper you didn’t pick out but have lived with so long you stop noticing. Until one day, you see it. Peeling at the edges. Ugly as hell.

These beliefs? They didn’t start with us. Someone handed them down. A father, a teacher, a magazine cover, a side-eye from someone who never understood the fire in you. We soaked them up young, before we knew we could say no.

But here’s the truth: a belief is not a fact.
It’s a habit of thought.
A program.
A costume.
And you can take it off.

That’s the work I do now. Sitting with people in the mess of it. Dusting off the old stories, poking holes in them, finding out where they came from and whether they’re still true. (They usually aren’t.)

And then we rewrite them. Not with glitter pens or fake affirmations taped to the bathroom mirror—but with something deeper. Something cellular.

Like this:

I love my work even when no one understands.
I’m not too late.
Every time I create, I come alive a little more.
My art has a pulse, even when it’s quiet.
I am not here to impress—I’m here to express.

Imagine believing that.

Not pretending. Not hoping. Just… knowing.

And yes, sometimes it’s hard. The process digs. You cry. You get mad. But you also laugh, and soften, and feel something that hasn’t moved in years begin to breathe again. Most people leave lighter. Straighter. Like someone finally gave them back the keys to their own house.

Beliefs shape everything. The stories we tell. The art we make. The way we get out of bed in the morning. And the beautiful thing? We get to choose them. Every day. We can uninstall the junk and install something new. Something that fits. Something true.

And then?

We create.

Anyway. Again. Still.